Fapping Fic: Pandora Hearts Version
by Lecanis
Summary: This is just a space for all the fic I have written/will write about Pandora Hearts characters... fapping. No promises on which characters or situations you will see, but feel free to review and make suggestions.
1. Chapter 1: Isla Yura

This is just a space for all the fic I have written/will write about Pandora Hearts characters... fapping. No promises on which characters or situations you will see, but feel free to review and make suggestions. If a couple of these look familiar, that's because they were originally kink meme fills. (No, I would never have thought to write Yura on my own.)

#1 Isla Yura

It's not enough, it's never enough. There's a thick metal chain wrapped around his twitching, dripping member, and still he's desperate for more. Is this what THE chains feel like? The ones that B-rabbit so casually tosses around, or the ones held by those creatures that reside in that place that he can only dream about. He knows those chains can pierce flesh, knows they can restrain, they can kill, but this pitiful simple metal replacement doesn't do anything at all, but turn tortured cock a darker purple as he, panting, thrusts toward the empty air.

He wants to know. He wants to lay them all bare, and he will someday, he's promised himself. All the money and the cultists and the words of paradise are nothing next to the sick selfish desire to see with his own eyes and feel with his own hands all those things that lay beyond.

Will they pierce him like this, like he pierces himself, feeding link after link of the cool rough metal into his body, straining his lithe form against cool stone, each wiry muscle bunched and knotted with the strain of his awkward position? Surely those creatures will share his perverse longings, those unknowable unnatural forms will writhe and twist and shudder in the darkness of the Abyss, tortured and torturing.

It's not the paradise he describes that he longs for, after all.

No.

It's the torture of it all, this man, sadist and masochist both, wants to see. And it's those thoughts that pound in his brain as he closes his eyes, begins to slowly tug on the chain, unwinding the end wrapped so artfully around his purpled pulsing head even as he sliiiiiides the other end - link by link so slowly - out of his twitching fluttering hole.

Behind his closed lids, there are a multitude of images, flickers of those around him in obscene poses, from the dead children of Fianna house stretched open on cold slabs to the brilliant beautiful figure of Jack-Oz Vessalius, gleaming under a warm sun, standing tall and straining forth a leaking erection to offer his own meager humble self a taste.

There's no continuity to it, none at all, as his shattered-broken-obsessed brain erupts alongside the straining body, streaming images of Glen Baskerville chained to the sealing stone, dripping-dripping blood and Vessalius seed alike, the victorious image of the 'Hero of Sablier' hyper-sexualized and become nothing but pornographic fantasy for the zealot.

And when finally he's lying still, on the stone floor, the coils of chain clinking a little as his shuddering form expels the last of them, the sticky mass of someone-else's-blood-his-own-cum splattered across his groin, he speaks a single laughing line to the sickened-curious servant whose duty it is to stand guard over these little sessions.

"Well, that was refreshing."


	2. Chapter 2: Gilbert Nightray

#2: Gilbert

Warning for slight... incestuous fantasy?

It's cool in the room, but he doesn't want to close the window, for fear he'll suffocate. It's always hard to breathe, once he starts, always as if there's not enough air anywhere and he'll just stop if he doesn't leave the window open. The flush on his skin is nearly as stifling as his own guilt, he thinks.

It might be less cool if he allowed himself to use his bed, but he won't. Dirty sheets mean washing up before bedtime, and it's already quite late. Besides, there's something horrific about the idea of doing this terrible deed in the place where he sleeps, polluting his resting place with perversity.

No, this animal instinct must be dealt with like an animal, close to the ground, lying spread out on his cool bedroom floor, pale skin completely bare. This instinct has to be dealt with in such a way as to be kept separate from his everyday life, from 'Gilbert'.

However.

The one thing he can't take off, won't take off, is still perched on his head, or rather, slipped forward over his eyes, so that it both hides his own view of the act and is a part of it.

It doesn't smell like the young woman who gave it to him. No. It smells like his hair, like oil, like cigarette smoke, like whatever food he has cooked most recently. It doesn't smell of the woman who gave it to him at all, but somehow, his face covered with it, his eyes staring up into the darkness under the stiff fabric, he feels closer to her.

That feeling stays with him, as he slides his fingers down over his chest, a ragged nail catching and scraping against the scar there. The movement isn't teasing or foreplay for himself; rather, it's hesitation, fear.

Perhaps this time, he'll stop before he gets there. Perhaps this time, he'll force himself to pull his hand away, set it flat against the floor, and lay still, torturing himself with the cool air until the urge goes away.

No. He won't. He'll scrape that same ragged nail all the way down over his belly, a petty punishment for his own insolence, a weak attempt at an apology that he doesn't deserve to voice.

There's no making up for something that you will continue doing, night after night, in the silence and secret sanctuary of your own home. There's no atonement for what you do not regret enough to tear yourself away from.

And there, the reason he keeps the window open for these little sessions, that flush against his skin. It arrives in full force when his fingers first reach hair, when the first tiny pricks against fingertips alert him to the nearness of that dirty part of himself. It flows near-crimson over his pale goose-pimpled skin as he lets just that same broken-edged nail impact the base of his shaft, scrape upward.

The pain is what he deserves, for the way his mind imagines her soft sweet hands wrapping in just that same place. That single line of pain - barely more than irritation really, not even any blood - is far less than the proper punishment for the way he imagines her innocent lips pressing themselves to the wet tip, lower lip rolling in just the right manner to press against that spot right below the edge of his foreskin.

His whole hand wraps around the rigid flesh, as sweat plasters his seaweeed hair to his forehead beneath the hat, the rough grip penance for the image in his mind of her green eyes wide as he presses forward, into hand/into mouth, pressing his disgusting unfit servant's manhood into her pure throat.

That heavy bosom would rub against his thigh, he thinks, pebbled nipples all the consent he needs, all the proof of her compliance in this awful act of desecration, as he spoils for himself this last unspoiled part of his childhood dream of perfect idyllic servitude.

He doesn't even dare dream about her nether regions. That's beyond his imagination, unseen/unknown depths that lie sacred and hallowed beneath the short schoolgirl's skirt. Here, beneath his hat, inside his head, there's nothing at all there, just darkness, just the terrifying esoteric womanhood.

But here, his own rough hand pulsing and pulling and dragging, he can imagine just fine the heat of her mouth, the surprise in her emerald eyes as his seed slithers across her tongue, slips down her throat, salty and bitter.

Here, as that same seed wetly squishes between his fingers, he can -

"Gilbert! What have I told you about this?"

The words cause him to stiffen, all at once, his entire body tightening painfully and his hand - that disobedient hand - jerking so hard that he cries out in pure pain as the foreskin actually rips a little, a faint line of blood appearing.

"M-master!"

He doesn't - can't - open his eyes and come out from under the hat, his ability to move completely frozen in this horrible guilty moment.

"Gilbert! How many times have I told you that if you're going to fantasize about my little sister..."

And there's that movement closer, those soft steps across the floor, fast but not heavy at all. And then... then there's a tongue against his flesh, lapping at the spilled seed, and the feeling of breath so close against his skin as Oz speaks again.

"If you're going to fantasize about my dear sweet innocent younger sister..." Lick, suck, soft shuddery breath across damp skin. "You have to do it where I can see you... and you have to tell me... every dirty little detail..."

"Ah-ah-"

"Do you understand, Gilbert?"

"Y-yes master!"

And when the hat is lifted away, it's an entirely other pair of emerald eyes twinkling down at him, and a mouth that is certainly not innocent smiling brightly down at the naughty servant.

"Good boy. Now, do tell me what you were doing to her this time..." says Oz, as he goes back to licking, his ears perked up to hear every stuttered, embarrassed, apologetic word.


	3. Chapter 3: Ada Vessalius

#3: Ada Vessalius

There's no one in the room. No one lurking outside the door, no one peering in the windows. She's made sure of those things already, checked and rechecked, made absolutely sure that her modesty will be intact. Yet the blush on the young lady's skin and the furtiveness of her movements are still signs that she is uncomfortable, worried, unsure.

She settles herself on the edge of her bed, restless, one small hand picking at the sheet a little as she reaches out with the other for the prize that she has smuggled home with her. It's such a small thing, wadded up like this, pressed into a pillowcase in just such a way to keep it above notice from the maid who had come to help her prepare for bed earlier. Just a jacket, smaller than the long coat that the Pandora members wear, more form than function, definitely.

The first thing she does is bring the material to her face, breathe deep. There's a faint tinge of blood there, but somehow, it seems that had always been in the scent, his scent. She's never been fooled that he wasn't the sort of man that killed, after all, and she's long since accepted that metallic tinge when she buried her face against his shirt, slipped soft shapely arms around his neck.

A stray strand of blond hair catches her eye, and she pauses for a moment, tilts her head as she inspects it, trying to decide if it's hers or his. His, she decides after a moment, twining the single bright thread this way and that, catching the light. She makes an attempt to tuck it into the jacket pocket, though it's probably pointless, will be lost and forgotten.

Well. That's all right. She's distracted now anyway, standing there in a light chemise, her body fully released from the usual bondage of a 'proper lady', lacking corset and skirt and stockings and knickers and all those layers that stand between her and the world, every day. Here, alone in her room, his jacket wrapped up in her arms, she closes her ears to the words that she has overhead, closes her mind to the knowledge that he is a traitor and he is a murderer.

No, she lets all those things go, and simply breathes in his scent, masculine and slightly bloody, with a hint of cigarette smoke that she's quite sure belongs to someone else, who perhaps he pushed his way close enough to that the smell seeped in...

If he would only push that close to her, of his own volition. If he could only see her, now, but she can't even know where he is. Not now, when everything has changed so much, the whole world thrown out of order and the only thing she has to hold onto is the cloth in her hands, the hard buttons that press against her chest, indent themselves against the delicate fabric of the chemise as she holds the coat close.

Later, she'll take one of those buttons, wind that piece of hair around it, and do a divining spell. Later, she'll take action, use the arts that belong to her only of her own will to find him.

Now, however...

She reaches for a pillow on the bed, wraps the sleeves of the coat around it, tucking them over the plush cover tightly. She settles both hands against the headboard of the bed, nudges the pillow forward a little with her knee, and then lowers her body over it, knees spread to either side.

It's not perfect, not right away. There's an art to this, and the perfect place to line her pelvis up against the pillow isn't the same as where she'd want a real lover, not exactly. There's a tightening to her thighs that is necessary, to make the right friction, to cause her nether lips to rub just so against that part inside... ah!

She doesn't know what it's called, or where exactly to find it, because the idea of actually touching herself in those places is too taboo, even for this young woman who delves into the mysteries of the universe, who hides treasure troves of old tomes, who chants spells in the darkness of night alone.

No, the mystery that lies between her legs is too dangerous, even for her, subversive feminine darkness that might swallow whole the purity that is prized in such a young noblewoman, if she teases it. This man she longs for has not yet touched that place either, but oh, the thought of it! The thought of herself pressed against his lean form, just so, just this way, riding high on his thighs as her own grip so possessively at him, as she grips him inside and out, catches herself on his body and holds on, holds on so desperately.

"You have to come back," she whispers, ardently, into the ear of a figment, her lips moving against the shell just as his have moved against her own so many times, with all the sweet words he has used to woo her.

"You have to come back to me," and those words too are a spell, the slick fluid between her thighs an oblation, the heave of her breasts and bounces of her hips against the warming-rough fabric a spirit dance.

She doesn't know the word for that moment when her entire body rocks, when her lips press together tight to hold back noise, when her belly tenses up so hard she feels it might touch her spine, when the roaring in her ears blocks out everything. She doesn't know the word for it, isn't sure of the vocabulary of passion, the language of sex lost to her if not the act.

That's immaterial, of course, because it does shake her all the same, all through her body, the barely-there silk of her single garment clinging tight against skin, sweaty-darkened. She has no name for this feeling, but as she collapses forward, tugging the pillow from between her legs and hugging it to her chest instead, letting the scent of her own sex and his scent mingle in her nose, as she clutches, clings.

"... good night, Vincent."


	4. Chapter 4: Leo Baskerville

#4: Leo Baskerville

Warning: Insanity

The first signs of it had been quite some time ago. Those first little lingering looks, the first strange impulse to touch, to stand a little closer or reach a little further. Those first moments of rapid breath, sweaty palms, heated skin.

He'd grown accustomed to it. He'd held himself apart from it.

Propriety, virtue, social status, common sense. All these things had stood between himself and what he desired. Even more so, his own fear of perverting, corrupting, destroying.

He'd done that in the end anyway.

His master - _his friend _- was dead. There's nothing left to stay away from, not touch, not cling to.

With no reason to hold back now, he's set himself free.

Which is why the teenager is now sprawled out on a bed in one of several Baskerville hideouts, his clothing in disarray and his breath harsh and loud as he tugs at the restricting fabric.

He might be fantasizing, but somehow it feels more like a hallucination, feverish and bright. Whichever way it goes, he's obviously completely caught up, enough so that he doesn't seem to mind the blond servant watching him from the shadows.

Perhaps he can't see that man at all, because his entire world seems to be taken up with the sight of someone who isn't there, the feel of skin that has never touched his in this way, a scent of dried flowers, books, and sword oil.

The buttons on his shirt are casualties, popping this way and that, and the shirt itself is slain soon after, a long tear in it as his clawing hands meet the skin of his chest, finally. The clawing does not immediately stop - it takes him a moment to realize that soft fabric is gone and it's flesh that's being torn - but he simply moves on to his pants, unconcerned.

It's only when he's fully naked that he begins to make noise in earnest. It's only once his blood is staining the sheets, his teeth are buried in his lip and his bright sparkling eyes are closed as tight as he can get them that he lets himself speak, mutter, mumble, moan.

"Elliot."

The name is on his lips as he wraps a sweating-shaking hand around his cock, low and breathy.

"Elliot"

The name is on his lips as he twists and tugs and pinches, harsh with his own body, harsh with his own mind.

_There's no need to be gentle, Elliot, I've hurt you. _

_There's no need_.

There aren't any coherent words on his lips at all anymore, as he silently begs some unseen ghost for his release.

There's nothing but a whimper, when he finds it.

And he'll be entirely silent by the end, by the time his servant steps forward to wipe tears from his reddened face, cleanse oil and seed from his body, and finally cover up the sleeping form.

_He's set himself free, now that it's far too late._


	5. Chapter 5: Liam Lunettes

The fantasy always begins the same way. It never starts in private, for one thing. It's always while Liam is working, in Pandora Headquarters, among coworkers. There, in various meeting rooms and offices, he finds himself standing and shifting and turning himself about, trying to keep his distraction from showing, as the vivid imagery unfolds in his mind.

It begins, of course, with one Duke Rufus Barma. The first image is always a close up on Barma - in his beautiful red-haired form, of course - smiling that particularly devious smile at Liam.

Already, at this first flash of that smile, Liam's heart is pounding. He takes a step back from whoever is standing closest to him at the moment, pauses mid-sentence if he was speaking, struggles to create some form of composure. Because by now, he knows what is coming next.

"I'm bored of your clothing."

The tone is in fact one of boredom, and perhaps if Liam hadn't had this little fantasy before, he'd think some change of wardrobe was all that was coming. But this particular waking dream is one that has plagued him for months now, and he knows - he knows - that isn't what is in store.

At this point, wherever he is while the fantasy is happening, he's already looking for an escape route, tugging at his clothing to be sure that certain bodily reactions are covered, and lowering his gaze to avoid eye contact with anyone. No one can know what filthy things reside in his mind, after all.

It spins out quickly, after that first few shots. As if someone had been slowly unwinding the string of a kite, and then suddenly released it, letting the wind carry the kite off through the clouds. His entire world spins with the suddenness of it, the insistence that Barma's boredom will only be cured in one way:

"Let's try working without them today."

If Liam hasn't fled whatever meeting the fantasy interrupted yet, this is the point at which he does so. Because he can't stand there in a public place and in his mind see his own shaking hands unfastening his clothing, folding it messily - too nervous to be neat even! - and setting it aside. If he's still in public when he stands there, blushing and bared before Barma's eyes, he'll drop whatever he's holding and flat out bolt for the nearest door.

No, he has to be alone for the part where he turns his back, his spine stiff and the muscles of his ass so taut that one couldn't help but notice how hard he was clenching, and tries to focus on whatever work Barma had for him. He has to be absolutely in a safe place, by the time he stutters Break's name, when the man comes by to speak to him, when he shoves whatever book or paper that he's holding over his front as his friend teases him.

By the time Break and Barma stand on opposite sides of Liam and giggle at each other, Liam has to be standing with his back pressed against a door, his hand opening his pants desperately, his glasses askew on his face, sweat wetting the short hair stuck to his forehead.

It's always exactly the same. The parade of onlookers, from Gilbert Nightray (blushes and flees) to Sharon Rainsworth (leans over to look as closely as possible at his groin, titters, and then runs away ) to Vincent Nightray ( tries to touch and is scolded and sent packing by Barma to even Oz Vessalius ( comments he should make Gil do this someday.)

With each new guest star in the fantasy, Liam pumps himself harder, breathing harshly and shushing himself under his breath, reminding himself audibly that he can't be too loud, lecturing himself in a voice that sounds almost disturbingly like Barma's at his point.

"Shh Liam you don't want to get caught."

He slides down the door with the words, pants pooled all the way around his ankles by now, chest heaving, body rocking back and forth a little as he strokes himself.

"They can't know what's in your mind. That you want them all to see you, that you want to be humiliated by them..."

His shoulders make a whacking noise against the door, one he doesn't even notice, as he braces himself with his feet and rocks harder, thrusts harder, desperate to wring every bit of sensation that he can out of his own hand.

"Rufus Barma can never know..."

And it's on the name that he comes, the name and the image of the end of the workday, of Barma sliding up behind him, wrapping his arm around, and fisting his cock with a quiet 'Well done.'

The fantasy - and the mess in his hand - is always the same, but this time, just this once, something has changed. Because this time, the room that he's chosen to play out his little private inner show just happens to be one with more than one entrance, and just happens to have been discovered by someone curious about his sudden exit.

This time happens to be the best - and the worst - time of all, because the words that drop from Rufus Barma's lips, startling Liam out of his post-orgasmic stupor, are these.

"Oh I think it's a little too late for not knowing... let's make it happen tomorrow, shall we?"


	6. Chapter 6: Xerxes Break

A more conventional man might believe that certain rather personal acts should be taken care of in one's private chambers. Break was, in no way, a conventional man. In fact, he was pretty much the opposite of what any sane human being would consider conventional (or sane) and he had his own ways of doing things. Sometimes, those things involved cupboards and popping out and scaring the pants off people. Other times, they involved his own pants coming at least partially off while in cupboards.

His favorite cupboard, of course, belonged to one Gilbert Nightray.

It wasn't that Break was harboring some kind of secret attraction to the man. There wasn't anything sexual at all about his preference for Gilbert's cupboard. It didn't afford a view of anything particularly attractive, except on the rare occasions that a lady visited. (And no, Alice did not count as a lady!) Even if it had, his vision loss was rapidly destroying the appeal of that.

But Gilbert's cupboard held a certain sort of appeal because of the sheer scandalousness of the thing. Gilbert, you see, could be shocked by just about anything. Liam had been that way, once, but he'd long since grown far too used to stupidity and lewdness, thanks to that idiot Barma, who had downright ruined Break's fun in that respect. Gilbert, however, was utterly immune to conditioning when it came to overwrought reactions. If anything, he seemed to be just as bad about them as when Break had met the boy, years earlier.

It made spending private time with Gilbert's cupboard appealing in some esoteric way understandable only to Break himself, for whom making others uncomfortable had become a definite fetish.

Spending any real amount of time in a cupboard required a special kind of flexibility, and Break was a master of it. At the moment, he had his legs stretched up one wall, his back against the bottom, and his head rested on an arm, just where wall met floor. The position left his face slightly flushed after a while, but that hardly mattered, considering what he was doing anyway.

The feverish sensation on his skin was just part of the experience.

The rest of the experience, of course, involved his other hand pushed down the front of his pants, tugging them down just far enough to let the somewhat stuffy air of the cupboard touch his skin. His long outer coat was wadded under him a bit to keep it out of the way, but his hand still brushed against purple fabric with each movement, tempting fate with stains but enjoying the sensation against his skin. He rocked a little as he stroked himself, each upward drag of his palm bringing his fingers up to a damp foreskin, gathering the fluid there to slide down over himself.

It was a slow burn, a quiet leisurely friction, a tentative building of quickened breath and louder heartbeat, until his own noises seemed to almost fill the small space. So easy to hear his own little puffs and groans when they resounded off the close walls, bounced back to him from inches away when he turned his head.

His pleasure could almost burst open the seams of the little wooden box, he imagined, as he neared release, as each little drag of palm against stiff flesh became more heated and insistent. He could almost blow the doors off the thing with the slight back and forth motion of his hips, with the little thrusts up into his own hand.

Of course, then he'd lose his favorite hiding place, but it was a nice little fantasy, far more engaging than any fantasies of particular human beings he might have. He'd long since played out images of breasts or lips or thighs, in his long years of life, and more intimate parts were for men more uncouth than himself to slather over. Or perhaps simply less imaginative.

No, he'd settle for his image of the cupboard itself, for the idea of it as party to his iniquity, as a living being which enveloped him in secret warmth, taking into itself a dangerous potentially destructive being for the thrill.

"You'd better not be peeking, Emily," he muttered, to the little doll hidden beneath the arm he was using as a pillow, as he raced closer to completion, the idea of his wooden lover a complicit party to his crime tearing his control away.

"As if I'd want to see that!" Emily retorted, of course.

Break opened his mouth as if to continue the little conversation, but the words never came, because just then, a light appeared...

Well, this was a first. The blushing, stammering, flailing, sputtering, horrified figure that flailed back from the cupboard door had nothing at all to do with the orgasm that went tearing through Break. It was just the proper time, obviously, he'd had just enough stimulation, and being caught was nothing but a coincidence.

He was already tucking himself away as he bounded out of his awkward position on the floor of the cupboard, merrily wiped his messy hand against a black coat as he passed the flustered owner of the apartment, and started toward the front door, Emily grasped in his clean hand casually.

"You might want to wash in there, Gilbert-kun!" he remarked, offhandedly, as he left. 


End file.
